Sharing is a Virtue.

All of our lives we've been told by our parents to to share--sharing is caring, whatever, whatever, bullshit bullshit bullshit. Before I go on any further, let it be known that this has nothing to do with the Occupy protests, and that I am not a socialist.

But I just read this article about how the author of which deletes his Facebook, and afterwards he realizes that having a Facebook never made his life more fulfilling; in fact, since he deleted it, his life has been more fulfilling. I'm seriously considering taking heed, going the extra mile, and finally deleting my own because of it. I think about doing it once a month if not more. I deactivate it for months at a time. I've been on this track for awhile. But I haven't gotten there. Yet. But I'm setting the date. Dec. 31st, 2011. My personal New Year's resolution--one that is permanently achievable.
But at the same time, I'm reading this article and I think it's funny. It's funny that he still had the notion to share what he did, to publicize that he deactivated his Facebook through a different social medium. I've written about this before, but I never made it to a conclusion. Our generation has an obsession with sharing. But is it so much sharing or are we looking for some sense of validation in the form of recognition. Are we hunting for people who agree, to approve of our statuses, relationships, jobs, education, our friends, our appearances?  If it's not Facebook, it's Twitter, it's Tumblr, it's something else. Look at what I'm dong right now. What is the difference between what I choose to publish on my blog and what I choose to write in my journal?
What is the difference between the thoughts that I want to keep private and those I want to broadcast? Nine times out of ten it's for my own sense of ego--the cynical motive behind most everything--arguably everything--that we do. The thoughts I keep private are kept private for my own benefit--to avoid a bad representation of myself--to save face. And the thoughts I choose to share, I convinced myself might be of some social value, entertainment, or just thoughts that I can't fathom on my own, that need collaborative feedback.
As I'm thinking about it, I actually don't think this obsession with sharing is limited to our generation, we've just been the best at it so far. Before the Internet, there was broadcast television, before the news, there were newspapers, before newspapers, there was gossip. People want to be in the know. And people who are in the know want everyone else to know they're in the know...
I can never finish my thoughts on this. Gotta run.

"Life, if you keep chasing it so hard, will drive you to death. Time - when pursued like a bandit - will behave like one, always remaining one county or one room ahead of you, changing its name and hair color to elude you, slipping out the back door of the motel just as you're banging through the lobby with your newest search warrant, leaving only a burning cigarette in the ashtray to taunt you. At some point you have to stop because it won't. You have to admit that you can't catch it. That you're not supposed to catch it. At some point, you gotta let go and sit still and allow contentment to come to you."

-Elizabet Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love

The Black Hole of Possibility

“To describe this process of getting acquainted with people, with a culture different from our own is to recognize the experience as liberalizing. We are all limited in our understanding of our own conduct and that of our neighbors because we see everything by the preconceptions offered by our own culture. It is a task of education to provide a viewpoint from which the educated person may free himself from the limitations of these preconceptions.We are all islanders to begin with. An acquaintance with another culture, a real and deep acquaintance, is a release of the mind and the spirit from that isolation. It is to learn a universal language.”

-Robert Redfield, Chicago anthropologist

I can do whatever I want to do--be whoever I want to be. So what happens if I don't know what I want?

The possibilities are endless.

Well, don't you think that's just a little bit exorbitant?

There are so many options that I feel limited...

trapped inside my own.

ImaginaAAAaaaation.

"I don’t want realism. I want magic! Yes, yes, magic. I try to give that to people. I do misrepresent things. I don’t tell truths. I tell what ought to be truth. And if that is sinful, then let me be damned for it!"
— A Streetcar Named Desire, Tennessee Williams


Have you ever wondered what would happen if everything you ever imagined as a child were real?
Because it would be awesome. It would rain apple juice. Sofas would be made out of gummy bears. Dirt would be made out of crushed oreos. 
And people wonder why I was fat as a kid. 
I never really believed in Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy--although I did applaud their practice of rewarding children-- but even without them, my fabled world of adolescence was straight up magical (and delicious).
At the same time, it was horrible--terrifying--scary.
I mean, it would really suck if every time I flushed the toilet a monster would grab me and take me with him (or her) into a world of smelly darkness. It would really suck if every time I closed my eyes in the shower a demon that resembled Paige's former love interest (Charmed reference) would take me with him into some undetectable cave in the underworld. It would really really suck if at the stroke of midnight the clothes in my closet would come alive and try to strangle me. And although it might be kinda cool if dinosaurs really were my best friends or if street lights really did have feelings, what happens when my dino pal tries to eat me? Or when I realize I don't care about what streetlights have to say?
I guess if things went sour, I could always revert back to the if-I-can't-see-you-you-can't-see-me trick or take cover under my blanket that doubles as an invisibility cloak and invincible fortress.
Fast forward thirteen years...who am I kidding, I believed in the Toilet Monster well into the fifth grade...minor detail. Fast forward roughly thirteen years and now I have to face real problems (ie. Acne and student loans). It's no longer cute to be fat. It's no longer acceptable to sing while you use a public bathroom (and then run away after flushing). And no matter how long I hide under my blanket, all of my monsters will still be there waiting for an opportune moment to kidnap something bigger than me--my future. 
Now I'm eighteen and I'm finally starting to understand that until now, all of my battles have been fought for me. A monster never got close enough to eat me because I had an older sister, a mommy, a daddy, grandparents, and comfort food to protect me from harm's way. I've never really been alone. And even if I was alone, I never really felt alone.
Well.
In two months, I'm going to college.
College.
Is that real life? Or is that some kind of pre-packaged cookie?
I wish it were a cookie because then I'd know what to do with it (eat it, le duh). Unfortunately it's real life and I have no idea what I'm doing. I have no idea what I'm going to do without my wonderful hometown that I love even more than processed food. And I'm afraid that when I turn off the lights, I won't be scared, I'll be lonely.
But these anticipations are just possibilities entangled in something much bigger--because college isn't a cookie, it's magic. Sure I'm scared shitless, but everything that I ever wanted to accomplish, anything that I ever wanted be real can become tangible through secondary education. I'm glad I'm not a kid anymore. Because now I know that I'm psyching myself out. Monsters aren't real. I made them up. And although I don't want to leave my hometown, my friends, my memories behind, I can't wait until these two months are up and college transforms from magic to reality.

If the world were smaller...

I am completely obsessed.
Addicted.
Strung out.
I love to travel.
I want to see the world.
There's so much world to see.
How will I possibly have enough time?
And yet if the world were any smaller it would lose infinite amounts of appeal.
The fact that the unknown can be known, found, touched, tasted, experienced is incredibly tantalizing.
What in the world am I going to do with myself?
There's so much world to see.
Where should I go first?

Spare time.

This is the result of having plenty to avoid doing and insane ice cream cravings.

Gray Skies.

I am force feeding Fight Club down my own throat and I have come to the conclusion that struggles arise from only two situations:
1) when you don't have enough
2) when you have too much

The problems that the poor face are circumstances. Think poverty, hunger, disease.
The problems that the rich face are invented. Think depression, addiction.

We are unhappy when we don't have things. We are unhappy when we have things. I hate Fight Club. But I cannot say I disagree. I hate the narrator because he is complains that his life doesn't have any meaning and the only way to find it is to destroy everything and fuck everything up. I hate him because I am doing the exact same thing. I really hate myself right now. No. Shut up. I don't remember why I'm here. I'm living to die. I've become a nihilist in four weeks. I want to know that it's worth it. That I've impacted something important positively. That without me something else could not exist. Maybe that's why people want children. Maybe that's why people make art. Those things are all their own. Without them those things could not be. They find the will to live so that their creations can keep living. We are what we make. And following that logic, I am nothing.

I struggle with the idea of insignificance and mediocrity but I am also afraid of heights, not so much because I'm afraid of falling but because I don't want anybody else to see. Isn't there a way to climb in the dark? Eh but I'm probably bullshitting you because I might be very afraid of the fall.

I need to crawl out of myself.
I need to stop complaining. I need to remember that I'm working towards something. I need to remember that there are people out there who did not invent their problems. I need to just do it and stop blogging about it.

I know what God is but I do not know my own.
I feel so lost. And I am annoying the fuck out of myself.

Why can't I just go through the motions until it's real? Does that work?
All this identity crisis bullshit is leading me to large bouts of idleness. I wish I could spend 75% of my life on a time crunch. Stressed out to meet five deadlines. Then maybe the other 25% of the time I wouldn't worry about who I am.

The only thing is, I should be on a time crunch because I do have five different deadlines to meet. I just don't care about any of it, anymore.

Who can I blame for this one? I'm going to go ahead and say college. "My future"
I need to get out of myself.

Sorry all my posts are depressing.

Peacocky.

I like to pretend I'm artsy because I take one art class a year and I doodle over my stats notes...doodle instead of taking stats notes. Yep. But out of all four years this is the only final project that I actually like. We had to create a "handscape" where our hand became a part of nature.

Personal Statement. Take 2.

Worst Important Essay I have Ever Written. One of the best essays I have written in twenty minutes. I'm not going to get a single dime. Pulling the pity card. Twenty minutes. What do you expect.

They say that the grass is always greener on the other side, which might be true since I live on the Other Side of the River. In fact a friend’s mom wouldn’t let her come over once because I “live in the Ghetto.” I am privileged enough to attend Dublin City Schools but I do not live in Dublin. My parents got divorced when I was younger due to my father’s gambling addiction and now we rely on my mother’s small business as a trade show vendor that aches with the economy. I maintain a job, working on average 25 hours a week, and I choose to remain involved in school while balancing a 4.0 GPA, because I can and because I care.

I may be on the peripheral of the perfect Dublin bubble, but everybody faces obstacles. And often times one will find that obstacles can be the most empowering. The obstacles that I have seen in my short lifetime of seventeen years forced me to become a problem solver. They forced me to either sidestep that challenge or to twist it around and use it to my advantage. Call me an idealist and I’ll tell you it’s my reality. I believe in the power of will. I am what I make myself out to be. If you did not ask for me to “address my financial need,” I would not have because I want to be acknowledged for my actions, not my circumstances. Success is earned, not given. And success to me is to impact another being’s life—not just for the better, but for good. Before I can significantly affect someone else, I first must begin with myself. I am asking for this scholarship because the grass might be greener on the other side, but I know how to water my lawn.

You know you want to...maybe.

SHAMELESS SELF PROMOTION TWO POSTS IN A ROW.
FOLLOW MEEEEEEEEEE!  
^ Hello. I am your central nervous system. Click it.
I'm asking you to validate my life. You don't have to read it or even look at it, I just want other people to think that you/read or look at it(other people as in....me). I'll try not to only post pictures of myself because if you see me everyday, which is likely, then it'll get old reallllly quickly. What if I put some jokes on it? eh?
What if I told you what the title meant?
Paperback Fashion= Only realllllllly good writers come out with hardcover books because they know that they'll be able to sell them. So I'm not a fashion expert, I just have a big closet(s).
the Voltaire quote= Uh hello freedom of expression. Writing and fashion and democracy go hand in hand.
FOLLLLLLOOOWWWWW MEEEEEEEE!!!!! PLEASEEEEEEEEE!
Think about it. Think about it harder. 


Do it.

Wishes.

Top: Tie-neck Blouse, The Gap, $59.50
Skirt: Atomic tweed mini, J. Crew, $120.00
Shoes: Mint-green leather peep-toe pumps, Marc by Marc Jacobs


Yeah. I just made a virtual outfit. Gap and J Crew conveniently use the same color as a backdrop. I WANT THESE SHOES FOR PROM.
Please be on the lookout for mint green pumps por moi!


Anyway about this lookbook...I obviously don't belong. How the hell did I even get one?


Ps. Raleigh and Jordan. You guys are an inspiration. Here's my shoddy attempt at a style diary. TAKE A LOOK!

Growth v. Achievement.

If today was a color it'd be cream, rose and peach, which are three different words for the same color.

It is 55 degrees outside and I am hyped up on endorphins because I hiked 3-5 miles this morning with my dad. Even though I lost my one of my favorite earrings that were pricey it's okay because I can be a Buddhist for a day or two and remind myself that material things don't matter. And after those one or two days are up I'll go back to being an all-American consumer and buy myself some new ones=)

But anyway during the hike con mi papa, I told him about my plans for The Columbus Adventures, where I explore Columbus like a tourist, and take pictures of Columbus, like a tourist. His response was something like "That's great but who are you going to show these too? What's the point of doing it if nobody knows about it?"

.....And cue internal conflict.

So is personal growth only valuable with recognition? Is achievement in general only considered achievement if people know that you did it?

In reality the answer is yes. Because no matter how great you are if you aren't affecting anybody else positively it really doesn't matter. It is essentially worthless.

However, I also think that if I better my self and my mind than it will affect the way I  perceive the world which would in turn change the way I react to others, and if the consensus is that I am in fact bettering myself then the way I react to others will be better.

I guess the only real issue here is the idea of an extrinsic source of motivation. Does the desire for all things have nothing to do with becoming a better, wiser, kinder person and everything to do with fucking bitches and getting money? Of course, in this sense fucking bitches and getting money is symbolic for a litany of other things including fame, recognition, blah, blah, blah.

Just because you're a starving artist does that make you any less of an artist? If a tree fell in a forest but nobody saw it, did it fall? If nobody heard it, did it still make a sound?

Don't you think that without the intention of gaining recognition and possessing only the intention to make art because it makes you "happy" makes your passion more pure?

"Pure."

Anyway, I don't know what I'm arguing for because I'm publicly posting all my thoughts on this blog and hoping that people will read them and get something out of them...guess I'm not an idealist after all.

But anyway I have to go so we'll leave this inconclusive. 

Personal Statement.

I dread success. To have succeeded is to have finished one's business on earth, like the male spider, who is killed by the female the moment he has succeeded in his courtship. I like a state of continual becoming, with a goal in front and not behind.

George Bernard Shaw

I AM THE AMERICAN DREAM, except better looking. And smarter.

Megan Chen’s Personal Statement.

Because one of the requirements to apply for every single scholarship is to write a “personal statement” –whatever the fuck that is—I will. BUT. Rest assured, I don’t have any idea what I’m doing and I am really unhappy about it and I will bitch the entire way. Plus I feel like I can’t do this properly without gauging my friends and family for their opinion of me. Which could only go one of two ways…I will either cry because nobody likes me or I’ll cry because people are feeding me bullshit that they love me and I will believe it completely and never doubt a single word. I LOVE BULLSHIT. Go ahead. Tell me I’m pretty. Actually, this is a personal statement. I’ll tell you I’m pretty. I’m pretty. And brilliant. And just a well-rounded freakin’ awesome individual who has twelve-year-old-boy humor and dresses like a trendy mom. You’d think this would average out to seventeen year old girl but really it’s just one hot mess, emphasis on the hot. Because in addition to all of those other desirable qualities, I am also one hot piece of ass. I mean, I run cross country. Technically. I mean, I’ve been a gimp my entire life but if you tell me cripples can’t run too I will go civil rights on you and sue your ass. The outcome of which would probably amount to more than any scholarship I’ve applied to thus far (zero). I haven’t had this bad of writer’s block since…the last time I had to write something important. Well fuck me. It’s probably not okay to say the word ‘fuck’ in a personal statement. Well, fuck you. I guess I won’t win this or any other damn scholarship. But if you don’t award me something substantstial, you will feel bad. Just look at me. Just look at me. I can personally state that: I am a needy child. I am not white. I am a first generation American. I do not have a penis. And I have an extremely foul mouth which can only shine light on my troubled home life. I wasn’t raised properly. But through trial comes success. Yeah. In other words. MY LIFE SUCKS BUT I’M STILL A HOT PIECE OF ASS. GIVE ME MONEY. 

Personal statement--check.
Now for Sam Tsui and his beautiful voice.

Spitballing.

Playing around. The quote is:
"Why, then, the world is mine oyster,
Which I with sword will break."
by Shakespeare.
I don't like any of the word placement. And my image is still a sketch. But it's an idea.
So does it make sense? I'm really not a computer person...

Random, Normal, & Independent.

So I keep doing this thing where I sketch over my stats notes. Inspired by some street art found in Mexico.

The Lost & Found Box

Dear Music,

I've missed you. Some people are just incredible. Haylea Johnson is a godsend. She's lending me her extra iPod...uhh.

Damn.

That's a big deal. That's really extremely nice of her.

You know, there will always be shitty people who do things to hurt you or those you love. But there are also those really great people who do things you never expect them to do, that they have no obligation to do yet choose to do anyway. This. This makes me want to revert to the person I was before senior year happened (what happened?). The person who should know better but still has faith in people and everything else. This. This might just be enough to do that. I've been really snappy lately. 

So here's my apology:

I'm sorry for being a total prick for the past 4 months. I'm sorry if I said anything that offended you. I'm sorry if I said things I didn't actually mean. And I'm sorry if I said things I did mean but didn't mean to word that way. 

I'm sorry I've been a cynical bitch.

Now that that's out of the way....my mom finally went out of town back to cereal and goldfish for dinner. Not together of course.

Question:

Buy myself a new iPod or a Kindle?

Blogging About My Life Makes Me Mature.

Today I went for the industrial strength nail polish remover. 20% stronger. Me and my cuticles are in a fight. Particularly because I subjected them to Hannah-Montana-pre-teen-sparkly-throw-up color aka Electric Blue with two coats of Sparkles 'N Things from Claire's.
Claire's = Hannah-Montana-pre-teen-sparkly-throw-up.
And I forgot to use a base coat so now even though I took it off, my nails still have a slight bluish tint which is just noticeable enough to make it look like I'm a vampire or zombie or just straight up dead.
And. To top it all off, my right bicep got a cramp from applying cotton ball to finger too vigorously.
If you're thinking to yourself: "Gee your life sucks...is there anything I can do?"
The answer is yes.
Feel bad for me.
Oh wait. If that's not enough to convince you that there's enough tweenage drama taking over my life that I think I'm Lizzie McGuire, I have acne and there's a school dance in t-minus 19 days.
Refer above to find out what I want you to do for me.

Fuck Bitches. Get Money.

We are taught you must blame your father, your sisters, your brothers, the school, the teachers - but never blame yourself. It's never your fault. But it's always your fault, because if you wanted to change you're the one who has got to change. 

Katharine Hepburn 

My mom, the hipster.

My mother is beautiful. And stylin'.
This is what I did instead of studying for exams.
CLICK ON IT. YA KNOW YOU WANT TO.
Jan, Mar, and Aug of 1989.

A Face Study

This is the newest page in my quote book. It turned out a little more bleak than expected but...what can you do?

THE BACK STORY:
This quote was torn from page 103 of the recent January issue of Vogue.
Spoken by Jeanine Lobell, founder of Stila Cosmetics, in an article showcasing actress Natalie Portman; the quote is less about her acting and more about her character.
I drew the man on the left late one night really sporadically. Apparently that's what I think about when I can't sleep on weekdays--apathetic Frenchmen...perhaps I'll name him Mersault. I don't know what I was going for with the extremely creepy mask of a woman on the right. Conject at will.

THOUGHTS:
It certainly made me think...is she right? Her argument is that as people get older and they're not good on the inside, it starts to show on the outside. I think I agree with her but I also think it's comforting that she's the founder of a high-end make-up line, meaning that where ever I should fall, I can change my fate and just apply a little powder. There. Good as beautiful.

Today I Took A Risk.

When I was in kindergarten, my parents wanted me to skip a grade.
When they told me, I cried.
When I was in first grade, my parents wanted me to skip a grade.
When they told me, I cried harder.
This happened every year until the third grade when I cried until I couldn't breathe and I allegedly turned purple. I cried until my parents turned mean and expectations fell unto anger.
I don't remember any of this, naturally. This is all told through the eyes of my parents.
What I do remember are my parents. I remember feeling very small. I remember my eyes growing very large. I remember their voices being very loud, a tag-team effort of attack. The word that comes to mind is 'looming.' Especially since I remember this conversation occuring in my dimly lit living room, where shadows seemed more real than people.
Long story short, I've never been apt to take risks. I've always been scared of jumping too high and falling into a rocky death. I've always been afraid of that critical moment when expectations turned into disppointments.
Today. I took a risk. And I fell.
But it seems I have risen(..if you read my last post, it's because I'm God, right? KIDDING). It seems I used this tragedy as a barometer for personal growth. And it seems I am really proud of myself for taking a risk and putting myself out there.
It must be true what they say. Cliches are cliches for a reason, aren't they? What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.
It seems every great fall leads to another great discovery and it seems as I become older the less afraid I am to take a risk, to put myself out there. And I am proud.
This time one year ago, I would've never had the balls to do what I did today. It's one thing to be nice and it's an entirely other thing to be a pussy. 6.5 times out of 10, I was a pussy. Today I was a bitch. I fell and it hurt...like a bitch, go figure. But it's ten hours later and I feel really good about myself. Besides, it was a much deserved fall; I was getting very spiteful and mean. And now that I'm content if not stoked about its outcome I'm starting to think maybe it wasn't because I jumped too high but not high enough (and if you're reading carefully, this translates into 'maybe I wasn't bitchy enough'...but we won't indulge in that.)
It seems I am beginning to gain confidence--that the coveted characteristic called composure is closer to being in my possession. And since I cannot think of any real triumphs, I will attribute this success to my greatest failures, in which my successes came from overcoming failure. Life is a sine curve: what goes up must come down, but more importantly, what goes down, must come up. Isn't that refreshing?

Soooo.... when do you think America's debt is going to reach it's relative minimum and start peddling up again?

I am God, if you did not realize.

Lately, everything seems just a little more pointless, a little more tedious, and a little more flat. Unfulfillment is swallowing me whole but my life feels empty.
And it is moments like these that remind me that people do in fact need God.
God, to give purpose, and meaning, and more importantly weight to one's life. The unbearable lightness of being. The unbearable lightness of being. The unbearable lightness of being.
For what reason am I supposed to do good things? For whom? To what end? Who is out there watching me when I choose to dissent from God?
When I am alone, what is stopping me from doing the reprehensible?
Nothing.
What is motivating me to do the laudable?
Nothing.
It seems self-fulfillment is not enough these days. I need to live for other people but today, I am alone. Yesterday, I was alone. Tomorrow I will probably be alone. I say probably because one must not lose hope. Even the hopeless must dream. But that too--dreams, that is--are not enough. I need to be loved. I need to be reminded that I am a perfectly acceptable human being.
And again at this point, the image of God pops back nto my head.
When all is lost, when you are subject to primordial solitude, you still have God. People need God. For purpose, meaning, weight, assuredness, and now love.
But what if people could find the will to live from within, void of outside influences? What if God is not an extrinsic being? What if He is an internal source of fulfillment? And when you have embodied Him, you have all of those things that are desired by people like me--people who are floating, drifting, flying--people who are permanently suspended in lime-flavored jello.
I guess what I'm trying to philosophize is that God may not be anything more than an extension of ourselves, from ourselves. God is our self-worth, our purpose, our value. God comes from within. When you have lost yourself, you simultaneously lose God...
So the next logical question is do I believe in God? And the only logical response is of course. Of course, I believe in God.
BUT. I do not embody him. I have not found or built what I want to live for...yet. Right now, I still depend on everything else for significance and justifiable substance
I believe there is a god but I am not sure what is my own. And this is confusing. This is hard to articulate. "What" is my god? Don't don't don't get confused. God does not have to be a "what." God is something entirely tangible. Yes, He is real but he does not exist. What is the dust of dreams? Or the shape of love, lust, sorrow, anger? What is God? These thing are all real. But they do not exist.
So did I reach a conclusion? What kind of ideology does this fall into? Give me a category and a place to belong.
Perhaps I've been reading too much Salinger. Perhaps I've been doing more than reading Salinger.